Goodbye, Apathy
by LadyInglorion
Summary: Eighteen year old Clint "Hawkeye" Barton only took the mission to clear his name, but it became an adventure that turned the young agent's world upside-down. Set 13 years before the Avengers, this is Hawkeye's first encounter with the infamous Black Widow. So, what exactly happened in Budapest?
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1 **

**S.H.I.E.L.D. Base, Denver, Colorado**

**January 17****th****, 1999, 11:33am**

The thirst is what awoke him. It wasn't an agreeable thirst; not the kind that followed a satisfying workout or a healthy round in the boxing ring, but the grinding, torturous thirst that comes after being far too drunk for one's own good. It was the body's desperate attempt to quench the dehydration, to staunch the body's involuntary lust for liquid displaced by alcohol. He lay in bed, awakened by this primal desire, somewhere between the reality of awake and the safe, painless realm of sleep. His short brown hair was slick with sweat, matching the salty, rank film of perspiration that coated the rest of his sun-tanned skin. His grayish-blue eyes, rolling behind their closed lids, felt dry and sticky. He chewed drearily without opening his mouth, ungluing his teeth and tongue from each other, cringing at the gross feel and taste of a saliva void mouth. And still, the thirst persisted.

At first he thought he could ignore it; outwit it perhaps, shove it away under the cool feathered pillow and lapse back into the placid, peaceful sleep from which his parched body had come. He rolled onto his side, away from the cruel white morning light streaming through the small porthole of a window, pulling the rough, scratchy Salvation Army-style covers up to his chin, tilting his head to wipe a drop of spittle from his cracked pink lips. Outside a bird chirped, and he curled reflexively into a small ball, as if the sound was a danger to his very existence. _Water! _his body prompted. He lay there, completely and utterly devoid of any sort of will and told himself to go back to sleep.

For several minutes, the agent succeeded; he drifted uneasily back into the dream he'd been yanked from moments before, mouth dropping open slightly as he descended into unconsciousness. But then that infernal bird cawed once more, shattering Agent Clint Barton's last attempt at sleep, and driving his thirst to the forefront of his now awakened brain. His eyes snapped open reluctantly, and he found with extreme displeasure he was forced to blink through a sticky dry red curtain; his own desiccated blood. Barton groaned deep in his throat, a low guttural sound, clearing away the bitter mucus that stung and itched his esophagus with several swallows. _Water, _his body reminded, filling up his consciousness with the tantalizing image of a glass cup of ice water, bubbly condensation gathering on the clear, chilly surface, dripping down the rounded pane, and creating a ring of water on the fictitious table on which it sat. Barton swallowed once more, trying futilely to return to his slumber, but, after several unfruitful minutes, decided that his next course of action should be to get out of bed.

He threw his legs over the side of his bed, testing with his toes the temperature of the tile floor. It was cold, and the sensation of his warm skin touching it sent chills racing up his spin. He shivered involuntarily, twisting his neck this way and that, working out the kinks and tightened muscles as best he could. He was clad in only white underwear, which clung to his sticky, sweat-soaked skin, and he uncomfortably picked at them, not fond of the feeling of wet cotton adhering to his upper thighs. He placed his feet flat on the floor and leaned forward slightly, still balanced on the edge of the bed, sighing as the shift in his orientation caused his throbbing head to spin and his stomach to roll; this was the part of alcohol-induced bliss he was not fond of. As he stood the pain throughout his body only increased, but his thirst was far more persistent than even that. He grit his teeth and stood up, tottering a bit on unsteady, uncertain legs before pursuing his only goal; hydration.

Barton stumbled into the hallway joining his cell to the outside world, making his way to the bathroom. The cold of the floor caused discomfort to the soles of his feet, but he ignored all of this and pressed forward.

The bathroom Barton entered was otherwise unoccupied, a stroke of luck he chalked up to rising early. Or at least he assumed it was early; maybe he was late. He was too befuddled to know the difference at this point. He turned on the first faucet he came to, allowing the cold, refreshing chill to wash over his wrists for several minutes before filling his hands with the god-given liquid and drinking. The sensation of relief gushed down his throat and he nearly sighed. He could almost feel his fever dissipating as he downed another handful of water greedily. As noisily as a feral dog, Barton refilled and gulped, refilled and gulped, until the ache in his stomach demanded that he stop; reluctantly, the agent turned the tap off after splashing a handful across his face. His fingers ran red and a zigzagging line on his forehead burned slightly as he passed his hands over his gruff, chiseled features. Grunting, Barton shook his hands wildly, spraying tiny droplets of blood across the pale white bathroom. The pain of his hangover was slowly being replaced by the pain of fatigue and stress; he could feel it in his strained leg muscles, his smarting biceps, and in the jagged scar criss-crossing his forehead. When Agent Barton looked up into the calcium stained mirror, obscured around the edges with mineral build up, he sighed wearily. The entire left side of his face was masked by blood from his head wound, and his blue eyes, usually alert and cautious, were dreary and dull. His bare chest glinted softly with sweat in the cool light of the bathroom, strong, tree-trunk like arms bulging and taunt. Vaguely, Agent Barton wondered about the details of what caused his injuries; then, when he couldn't remember, recalled that the reason for his drinking was to _intentionally _forget the events of the previous night. Apparently, they had been successful. The beginnings of a beard were present on his cheeks, and he raised a hand to touch his jaw line contemplatively, tilting his head. Agent Barton scratched the stumble, debating whether to let it grow or shave it off completely.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't the hawk, finally come outta his nest."

Barton whirled toward the voice, raising his hands defensively. He was in no position to fight, but the action was reflexive, a learned habit that occurred whenever he was taken by surprise.

"Director Fury?" he asked quizzically, allowing his fists to drop slightly as he squinted into the door of the bathroom. "Sir?"

"Hello, Agent Barton," the tall, imposing man with skin as dark as ebony and only one eye stated pleasantly, walking into the humid lavatory, his usual expression of perpetual disdain plastered on his face. Barton let his hands fall away completely as he watched his boss carefully, shoulders slightly sagged. "Have a good flight, Hawk?"

"Could have been better," the agent grumbled, throwing a hand toward the marred side of his face demonstratively. Director Fury nodded without interest, handing him a small red towel. Barton muttered his thanks and turned back to the sink, wetting the cloth gift and dabbing his face with it, watching Fury move in the mirror.

"You know, the wise thing to do when you return from a mission is to proceed straight to medical detail and then to my office for debriefing? Not drinking a supply of alcohol that could keep guys my size drunk for months."

"I'll take my chances, sir," Agent Barton muttered uncomfortably, squinting into the grimy mirror at the scar. It didn't look horrible, and it certainly wasn't going to leave a lasting mark. Damn. If he was going to endure a slash to his face deep enough to leave a mark, it should at least be permanent. Scars denoted character. Or at least women thought so.

"How soon can we get you back to work?"

Agent Barton turned quizzically, eying Director Fury skeptically.

"I thought SHIELD didn't like using me on missions. Sir. Apparently I'm unpredictable, flighty, and unruly. Besides, your monkeys in suits don't take very kindly to a… well, a master assassin accompanying them on their wild goose chases. They're not fond of my eyes. I, ah, see everything." Agent Barton's voice dripped with sarcasm and cruel humor.

"If that's true then you are exactly the man I need on this case," Director Fury responded coolly, single eye narrowing. Agent Barton stuttered, his interest piqued.

"Sir?"

"We're being faced with a potential national crisis, Agent Barton," Nick Fury said, exiting the bathroom with Clint in tow. He walked out of the prison-like dormitories, and Agent Barton had no choice but to follow, despite the fact he was dressed scantily in only white boxers. He ignored the looks ranging from puzzlement to intense surprise of passing SHIELD operatives, keeping his eyes trained on Director Fury's heels. To his intense displeasure, he was led straight through the central control center of operations at this particular base, and was subjected to the gaping, open-mouthed stares of at least fifty other agents. As far as he could tell, Director Fury was intensely enjoying his embarrassment.

"Sir, if you don't mind, where are we going?" Agent Barton demanded as they exited the well populated room for the sanctity of an empty hallway.

"To the medical facility. We're going to start up right where you left off; we're gonna get you cleaned up, doctored up, and sobered up, and then we're gonna talk." Director Fury's tone was calm, verging on amused. Agent Barton groaned, tipping his head back slightly. SHIELD's method of 'soberizing' people involved a particularly painful shot that caused irritation and intense headaches. It wasn't something to look forward to.

Director Fury left Clint in the capable hands of several nurses who in no time at all had him looking tight and prim and as awake as a child at play. They pulled and prodded, snipped at his hair and shaved his beard, buttoned up a black suit and slapped on a pair of crisply folded pants, butterfly-bandaged the jagged line on his forehead, injected him full of fluids, and massaged his sore muscles as if he was a Ken-doll, and then, when they had finished, pushed him into a room by himself with nothing but a steel table, illuminated by a cold white fluorescent bulb. And Director Fury. He stood at the opposite end of the table, arms crossed over his broad chest, expression bored and indifferent. Agent Barton fidgeted in his new attire with upmost unease, pulling at the scratchy fabric and adjusting his brand new tie morosely.

"Sir," he greeted, clearing his throat.

"Agent Barton," Director Fury nodded. "Take a seat," he offered, extending his hand to one of the steel chairs as he himself sat down. Agent Barton nodded and rigidly collapsed into his own stool, slumping against the backrest uncomfortably. Fury seemed to almost enjoy the young assassin's unrest, for a sly, nearly imperceptible smile was glued to his face. "I suppose you're wondering why you're here," Director Fury stated, fingering a manila folder resting in front of him. Barton nodded, waiting for him to continue. "As you know, you're one of SHIELD's top rated agents, even if you refuse to play by the rules."

"The rules don't play by me," Agent Barton said before he could stop himself, and, at Director Fury's displeased glance, he tacked on 'sir' for good measure. Director Fury grunted in acknowledgement.

"This particular case I have for you requires that exact mindset," Director Fury said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Agent Barton leaned forward, opening his eyes wider to indicate his interest. "If you're willing to take it."

"I suppose I could give it a go," Agent Barton mused, scratching his head thoughtfully. He was not used to SHIELD actually instructing him to break protocol, though it inevitably happened regardless.

"We've been tracking a master assassin much like you. At the current time, this person is responsible for thirty-seven known deaths, and possibly more that we haven't managed to trace. They are a master of crime; working outside of the law is their specialty. They have managed to evade any reconnaissance team we've dispatched thus far. None as of yet have returned more than snippets and glimpses of their location."

"He sounds like my kind of target," Agent Barton stated, cracking his knuckles.

"Not he. _She_," Director Fury emphasized. This news caused Agent Barton to sit back a little bit, and a grin spread across his face as he laughed.

"She?" Agent Barton smirked. "A rouge female assassin is giving you trouble, sir? What did she do, bat her eyelashes and step on your agent's balls with stiletto heels?"

"Do you think this is funny?" Director Fury demanded, eyebrows coming together behind his black eye patch in a frown. Agent Barton's laughter vanished, but a thin smile remained on his pink lips. "Eight of the thirty-seven people she has murdered were of SHIELD's finest and were worth ten times the man you are. She robs and lies and kills because it's a job that she enjoys doing. She's a spy, Agent Barton. She is _the_ spy. You may laugh and scoff about her gender, but I don't think you'll stand by those remarks when she puts a bullet through your eye socket. Now, are we going to get on with this briefing or are you going to keep interrupting?" Agent Barton shook his head, still disbelieving. "Her name is Natasha Romanova, but she goes by the _Black Widow_. She has a very specific skill set." Director Fury tossed the manila folder across the table to Agent Barton, who opened it with mild curiosity. Inside were several paper-clipped files. In front was a picture of a young woman, no older than he, with bright, curly red hair that fell to the middle of her back. She had a narrow, angular face with snow white skin, large green eyes with outrageously long lashes, and full red lips. Her expression was set in a determined, emotionless glower, devoid of anything at all but willpower. Agent Barton chuckled deep in his throat. As if he would really have difficulty with that pretty face. He'd woo her into following him anywhere, and maybe even have a little fun along the way. This detail wasn't going to be so bad after all.

"So what do you want me to do? Seduce her and when she's hopelessly infatuated with my dashing good looks, handcuff her to my arm and bring her back to the States?" he joked, mind trickling to the beginnings of a pleasant fantasy.

"If that's what it takes, yes," Director Fury responded. "But she's too clever for that. Do you know anything about entomology?"

"They study bugs, right?" Agent Barton asked, tossing the file on the table and returning his attention to his boss.

"A black widow spider is one of the most deadly arachnids on planet earth," Director Fury stated ominously, tilting his head. "Their bite contains enough venom to kill a grown man in seconds."

"So what're you saying, sir? That she's going to bite me? Hah, haha!" Agent Barton couldn't help but laugh at the notion, despite Director Fury's livid glare.

"I'm saying she's dangerous, Barton. Do _not _underestimate her. It's very easy to get in over your head with this target."

"With all due respect, I never get in over my head," Agent Barton responded, flexing his arm muscles as if to prove his toughness. Director Fury regarded him coolly and then shook his head, getting to his feet.

"How good is your Russian?" he demanded, splaying his dark brown fingers before him on the cold steel table.

"Lacking, sir, why?"

"Then study up," Director Fury suggested, pushing away from the table and striding to the door. "Because you're going to St. Petersburg."

* * *

**AN: This is my second Avengers fic, and I hope you enjoy it. Please, if you've read to this point, leave a review, I do so very much love getting reviews. ^.^ This should pick up in future chapters, had to lay the base of the story first. Thanks! -HockeyGirl871**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**Unknown warehouse, Moscow, Russia**

**January 1st, 1999, 1:30am**

"Văduve, convoacă!" _"Widows, gather!"_

Under normal circumstances, a congregation of woman would have been noisy and boisterous, accompanied by giggles, the clicks of plastic heels on smooth concrete and small sniffs because of the extreme chill of Russian air. But these females were silent, walking lithely on the balls of their feet with ease, the cold barely worthy of note. Despite the imminent looming darkness pressing down on their shoulders, interrupted only by a small red-wax candle resting upon a splintered oak table, they evaded each other with great ease, winding cat-like to their respective places in the room, careful not to touch anything but the air they breathed. There were twenty of them, as varied in height, weight, and appearance as the colors of nature. There were redheads and blondes, brunettes and raven-haired beauties, short and stocky athletes, and tall, lanky businesswomen. Their features, too, were widely diverse; some had wide, open, kind azure eyes, while others had irises as black and soulless as night. Some wore energetic, interested expressions, while the majority appeared stoic and firm. Throughout the miscellaneous cluster of high cheekbones or heart-shaped faces, full lips or thin ones, curly or straight hair, one characteristic was the same; every female possessed a small tattoo on the back of her neck, centered slightly above her shoulder blades, of a small spider, its legs splayed out symmetrically on either side, with a dot of color in the shape of an hourglass upon its abdomen. Each color was different, red, purple, blue, even magenta pink, and each girl wore a stripe of eyeliner to match. They convened around the table obediently, and as if on cue tipped their heads in a small bow to the original speaker. "Rise," he instructed in a thick Russian accent, and the congregation dutifully obliged. Smoke carrying a more pungent odor than tobacco wafted around the room, creating wispy images in the low light; it filtered from a glowing cigarette with multi-colored leaves protruding from the illuminated tip.

"Greetings, my daughters," the man muttered in a raspy, airless voice. He coughed feebly, raising a hand, covered in a leather glove, to where his mouth should have been; a large purple hood, shrouding his face in darkness, concealed his whole head. The grating coughs shook the gray beard protruding from under his covering, and his shoulders trembled with the force of his illness. Two caretakers, both clad in matching purple robes and stationed on either side of the old man, took his elbows gently, cooing soothing words into his cloak; both of their faces were covered as well, an attempt at mystery that was unsuccessful to the assembled women. They knew very well who hid behind the purple shrouds, and paid the guises little mind.

"My apologies, children!" the man exclaimed as his hacking ceased for the moment. "I grow weaker every day."

"We are here to serve, father!" the group responded in unison, raising their fists to their leader. Beneath the hood, the man smiled.

"It has been long since I last saw the light of day," he continued, clasping his hands. "Alas, I have not the strength. I am scarcely strong enough to stand before you today. So tell me, daughters; how goes your search for the lobelia seed?"

Uncomfortably, the assembled women glanced between one another, and then, when the majority of attention turned to a tall, gangling blonde, she cleared her throat and stepped forward. The hooded figure at the head of the table flicked his head toward her; the blonde faltered slightly, but found the courage to continue.

"Not well, my lord," she sighed, voice like a dragonfly flitting on the breeze. "We've had… difficulties…" The tension in the room was palpable, and the man hissed beneath his cloak. "But, we did manage to cultivate more petals, sir!" the blonde woman explained. "Here, my lord!" she cried. "Widows, show our father what we've gathered!" Edgily, following the blonde's lead, the other ladies began pulling vibrantly colored flowers from pockets and tossing them onto the table, until it was a beautiful array of rainbow petals. "See what we've collected for you, sir?" the blonde whimpered, holding her hands wide, as if to demonstrate the magnitude of the gift.

"Pah!" the hooded man bellowed, slamming a fist on the table. The draping sleeve that had previously concealed his hand fell away, revealing a deathly skeletal shape, more dead than alive. Veins, coursing with sickly greenish-blue liquid, popped out against the flaky white skin, and the blonde recoiled at the sight. "These petals are meaningless if I do not obtain the seed!" The hand snaked away from the table, its drapes covering it once again. "You have failed me again, Widows." A silence more anxious than the pitch darkness was now weighing down upon the cult, sucking breath from the mouths of the assembled women and into the lungs of the hooded figure at the head of the table. All eyes were cast downward, nervous energy crackling through the air itself. "You may ask of course, why must we obey your orders and scurry through Russia in search of the lobelia. It is mightily unfair, isn't it, that I make you run such errands for me. After all you are not maids, oh no. You were trained for something more." No one dared make a sound. The man rose to his feet, splaying his long, eerie fingers out on the table before him. The blonde Widow looked up through her heavily made-up eyelashes, and almost thought she could see the rough outlines of a face. Certainly, those twinkling bits of light were eyes? She looked down as they turned toward her, and a peculiar feeling of unease crept through her spine. "I will tell you why!" The man slammed his palms down on the table, causing several of the blossoms to tumble to the floor.

"I _made_ you!" he cried, harsh voice gravelly and menacing. "I gave you life! I saved you from pointless years of rotting in prison!" Beads of spittle flew from beneath the hood and landed on the table. The figure straightened slightly, breathing hard. "I was the one who convinced Gorbachev to consider the program in the first place, so listen well, you ungrateful wenches! You will find me the lobelia seed, and you will do so within the month! I don't care how far you must travel, or what trials you must overcome to succeed. Now go! Time is wasting!"

"Yes, Drakov!" the Widows chorused, extending their fists into the air in salute.

"I gave you life, Widows…" Drakov growled, collapsing backward into his chair, gasping for breath. "And I can take it away just as easily!"

The women disbanded, slipping silently back into the night.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"Ana, Galina," the hooded man said once all of the women had gone, voice lapsing back into a feeble whine. "Were all Widows accounted for?"

"All but Romanova," came the gentle reply from Galina, one of Drakov's hooded caretakers. The elderly gentleman pursed his lips as his assistants helped him to his feet. His quick outburst of anger had sapped much of his strength; his breath came with much stress, as if the air was as thick as honey. With help from the two women at his side, he made his way through the warehouse and up a sweeping staircase toward his bedroom.

"My medicine!" he cried as they allowed him to flop backward against a great expanse of pillows. The sound of a lighter igniting was heard, and the putrid scent of burning lobelia filled the air. Ana held a glowing joint before him and Drakov seized it greedily, bringing it to his chapped lips and inhaling. He sighed heavily as the flower's healing properties worked their magic; his trembling hands slowed, and breathing became easier. He tilted his shrouded head back, allowing smoke to filter out of his mouth toward the ceiling as he thought. "Ana, go downstairs and clean up the lobelia petals the Widows left. Galina, summon Romanova."

"Are you sure that's wise, my liege?" came Galina's tentative, unsure voice. Drakov immediately began pounding his free hand against the mattress, kicking his legs wildly.

"Galina, damn you!" he shrieked. "I want the Black Widow _now_!"

"Yes sir, right away, sir!" Galina squealed, hastening from the room as fast as she could manage whilst bowing until the tip of her hood brushed the ground. "I'll go get her!" The woman exited the room, pulling the door closed in her wake. Drakov growled deep in his throat and sank back into the mountain of pillows, struggling to relax. He drew deeply on his special cigarette, finding that it calmed his aggravated nerves.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" asked a cool, indifferent voice moments later. Drakov's head snapped up, and a sneer crossed his face.

"Natalia," he spat excitedly. "The infamous Black Widow. How superior you are to your fellow sisters. Any one of them I would have detected in an instant. But you are far too sharp to leave loose ends or footprints."

"You know me well, Drakov. I am flattered." Although Drakov couldn't see beyond his drooping hood, he heard Romanova moving in the room, the key turn in the lock, and waited until she sat at the foot of the bed before he responded.

"You are too keen for flattery," he hissed, statement obscured by rough coughs. Quickly, he took a deep breath from the lobelia joint. "Praise has never compromised you in the past."

"Too true," she agreed. A steely silence persisted, broken only by the shuffling of Ana and Galina downstairs.

"I assume that you heard the contents of our meeting?" Drakov said presently.

"Yes. Your words were quite… sinister," Romanova replied, pushing her vibrant red curls behind her ear. "Had Anastasia quaking in her boots." Drakov chuckled quietly.

"Indeed," he agreed. "And what of you, my pride? My spider queen? My deadliest assassin? Were you… 'quaking in your boots?'" Drakov rolled the unfamiliar English saying around his tongue uncomfortably.

"Hardly!" Romanova scoffed, getting to her feet. "I am not petrified of you as the others are." Drakov grimaced as she proceeded to examine the small bedroom. He wasn't sure if her indifference was a good quality or not.

"Then what are you?" he growled, extinguishing his cigarette on the glass of the bedside table. He tipped his head backward slightly so that he could see her whereabouts. His eyebrows knit into a frown as he found the young, beautiful agent standing before his safe removing a substantial amount of Russian dollars. She counted the total carefully, thought for a moment, then closed the iron door.

"A Widow," she answered, turning to face Drakov indifferently. "No more, no less." He sniffed.

"Where are you going?"

"St Petersburg. They have a beautiful botanical garden there that I've been wanting to tour for a good while." Drakov smiled darkly beneath his hood.

"Excellent!" he crooned, heart racing in excitement. If anyone had a chance to acquire the lobelia seed, the rarest pod on the planet, if was Natalia. "Let Galina back in before you leave," Drakov ordered.

"As you wish," Romanova stated, and Drakov sighed as the lock clicked open once more.

"I will look forward to your return," he growled, sudden exhaustion overwhelming his sick body. But the Black Widow was already gone, disappearing into the night as silently as the predator she was named for.

* * *

**AN: Hope you liked it! If you followed/favorited my story PLEASE review it. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Quick Note - This is set 13 years before the Avengers, so obviously the characters are going to be younger. I am basing their descriptions off of younger photos of the actors who played them. I would highly suggest looking up a young picture of Jeremy Renner, for your own personal gain ( ;) ) and so that you know what the character of young Hawkeye looks like.**

* * *

**Chapter 3 **

**Kuznechny Market, St. Petersburg, Russia**

** January 20****th****, 1999. 11:00am**

The first thing Agent Barton had noticed upon his arrival in Russia was that everything was big. Nothing was ever halfway done; the buildings were all incredibly giant and looming, portions at meals were nearly unmanageable even for a man Barton's size. The women were tall and stocky, carrying broad shoulders, wide forearms, and a heavy chest, and the Russian men caused Barton to reevaluate his own strength. The bed in the Renaissance Hotel in which Fury had ordered him a room was king-size with great fluffy pillows that all but swallowed up Barton's head when he had lain down the previous night to rest. He'd discovered just how lacking his Russian was during the check-in process; what a nightmare that had been. Fortunately, the pretty blonde receptionist had been fluent in English, else Barton would have been still standing at that counter making a fool of himself. He had retired early, exhausted after the horribly lengthy flight, and found himself asleep as soon as his head hit the mattress. He had awoken with a cramped neck and a groaning stomach, struggled through a tough, gritty breakfast of chewy bacon and tasteless scrambled eggs, and then proceeded into the streets, aimlessly wandering through the winding city, half-acknowledging the impressive sites, the bizarre giant-people, and observing the general atmosphere, trying to blend in. He disliked being this close to the ground, but Director Fury had asked him to keep a low profile; jumping across the rooftops hardly seemed to correlate with that instruction.

Barton now found himself at the gates of an enormous, bustling, hectic grocery market, brimming with people and every type of fruit, vegetable, meat, toy, or object imaginable. It was filled with every color of the rainbow; crimson tomatoes, golden peppers, emerald cucumbers and pickles, magenta squash, a deep purple robe draped across the shoulders of a potential buyer, salmon colored slabs of chicken, and some sort of orange cream rotating slowly in a large black kettle. Children ran to and fro, laughing and crying out in hastily spoken Russian, chasing each other and small animals while their parents trailed behind, haggling with street vendors, trying on clothes, sampling the fruits, and slipping bits of merchandise beneath their goose-down parkas when they believed no one was looking. Everything was fresh; Barton could tell by the overpowering aroma of ripeness, almost as if the wares had been plucked from the mother-vine only moments before. The scents were so sweet and lovely they almost felt out of reach, and they beckoned to Barton to come closer, to smell them more, that in order to understand them completely he needed to come inside. He didn't resist; it would have been impossible to dismiss them idly and continue on his way. Clint Barton looked around, taking a quick, surveillance glance around the area, and then ducked under a large, wrought iron sign reading " Kuznechny."

Inside the spectacle was even more awesome; the market ran for miles, painting the broken cobblestone street with hundreds of hues and tones of everyday articles, ranging from food to tools, and even extended into the back alleyways where the more licentious items were being procured. Babushkas shuffled in these shadowy halls, hocking small packages of mushrooms and other bizarre organic herbs of an intoxicating nature. Agent Barton concluded after several minutes of observation that their activities were likely illegal, for when members of the local law enforcement appeared, clad in a red felted hat and dark gray collared shirts, the toothless women disappeared into the crumbled brick buildings, suspiciously vanishing from sight. The police passed without notice; however, nothing escaped the Hawk's careful gaze.

He wandered aimlessly for a long while, silent as he watched the boisterous interactions of Russian people, taking in the intriguing, tempting scents and the enticing expanse of color, and his mind began to drift away. He considered the previous years of his life idly; to his great displeasure, his memories of his past were incredibly cloudy and uncertain.

He had not been working as an agent for SHIELD a long time, only a year or so. But in that amount of time, he had transitioned from a world-class criminal to one of its highly skilled officers, a vicious, immoral eighteen-year old with a bloodlust to rival his previous gusto. He'd grown careless on one of his forays, and was captured by the United States government, tortured brutally, and eventually sentenced to death row. SHIELD, a budding quarter of the administration, had intervened and recruited him, literally pulling him from the jaws of death. They had given him a chance, a shot to change his ways, and he had taken it. He'd needed directions and orders to control his manic energy; SHIELD had provided just that solution. They told him what to do and when, gave him deadlines and incentives to meet; he scarcely had room to think for himself at all. It was easier that way. Better. Better than before.

"Excuse me, sir, but if you're not going to walk, please move aside – you're blocking my way."

Agent Barton turned at the sound of a smooth, heavy feminine voice, jumping out of his muddled, unclear thoughts with a start. It wasn't easy to sneak up on him; however, the difficult task of retrieving his memories – a goal he'd been pursuing for a long while – often pulled a cloud over his mind, causing him to lose focus. He'd repressed such episodes for several months, but recently they had been occurring with increased frequency. Each time, his past became a little bit clearer. He turned his attention now to the young woman who was speaking to him. She appeared to be a couple years younger than him, was clad in a milky beige wool dress with blue satin trim. Over a voluptuous nest of thick orange curls rested a matching crème colored hat, into which her hair was tucked. A lacy white veil covered her face, shadowing every feature but pale narrow cheeks. She was built thinly, but possessed substantial curves around her hips and chest. But all of this was trumped by the flawless English that flowed from her painted red lips. The intense relief that washed over Agent Barton had rarely been paralleled in any of his previous missions. He tilted his head to the side before answering.

"Sorry, ma'am. Got distracted," he apologized, stepping out of the main walkway toward a cart filled with foul smelling salted fish.

"Thank you," the redhead said crisply and then continued on her way. Agent Barton's eyes followed, stomach turning slightly as he watched her sashaying figure move off. Disregarding the twinges in his gut regarding the cool female, he slipped his hands into his pockets and followed her, keen gray eyes never leaving the back of her head. The pair wound for several long, interesting minutes toward the rear of the Kuznechny market, Agent Barton surprised at the dexterity and ease with which the woman, seemingly American in culture, moved through the bustling Russian crowd. They passed monstrous orange and green gourds, vibrantly yellow ears of corn, bright red filets of salmon, and after going by an intoxicatingly sweet stand of cinnamon-roasted almonds, came to a halt beside a small fruit stand, where the aroma of freshly picked strawberries wafted over the body odor of hundreds of people from six feet away. The woman reached out with long, delicate fingers and lifted a small parcel of the crimson fruits from the cart, bringing them close to her face. Agent Barton assumed that she inhaled, judging by the rise and fall of her very full chest, which he had shamefully found his eyes drawn to when her profile had been presented to him. He watched her pass the vendor several coins before moving off, once again with Agent Barton in pursuit. Several times as they walked she glanced over her shoulder, saw the man still following her, and picked up the pace. Agent Barton, feigning the bird of prey that his pseudonym reflected, swooped closer, gaining distance on the girl until they were merely two meters away from each other, at which point the girl whirled around, stopping in middle of the road defiantly.

"Why are you following me?" she demanded, voice rising in octave. Agent Barton smiled politely.

"You speak English good, and you're the only one I've met here who can. I speak Russian bad. It was nice to hear my mother tongue," he replied, not entirely a falsehood. The woman tilted her head quizzically, still perturbed.

"You don't speak English **_well_**, either," she countered. "And as to your Russian, I can only assume that you speak it _badly_."

Agent Barton was caught off guard. He'd never had someone correct his grammar before, least of all a foreign female. He cleared his throat before answering.

"Right," was the only word he could muster.

"Why are you following me?" the woman reiterated, and Barton smoothed his wispy sandy brown hair casually before answering.

"I told you. You speak English, I speak no Russian. We're in Russia, and it's nice to hear something I can understand."

"Why did you come to Russia if you cannot speak the language?" she snapped quickly.

"I've always wanted to see the Winter Palace. My family emigrated from Russia. I wanted to see what all the fuss was about." Even to the Agent, his story seemed fake and jumbled; he didn't believe himself, but, like she had been throughout their entire encounter, the woman's face remained in a stern frown.

"What does that have to do with following a young woman through a produce market?" she demanded. Agent Barton smiled slightly.

"Nothing," he stated, and for the first time, the woman's face gained an expression; she glowered even darker.

"Then why are you here?" she asked for the third time. "There are plenty of English-speaking tour guides you can hire that will give you sex after your visit to the Palace is over. Why are you chasing me?"

"Actually, I was hoping you'd go to lunch with me," Agent Barton interjected, scratching his head. This caused the woman to falter. He tipped his head toward her slightly, struggling to see her face. "My treat."

"Where and when?" the woman asked.

"Your choice. I don't know anything about this place." She looked down at her hands, still holding the packet of strawberries. Agent Barton rocked on his heels patiently, waiting for her response.

"Meet me at the Korovabar Bar tomorrow at one o'clock."

"Great," Agent Barton exclaimed, grinning. For a moment, he caught a glimpse of her eyes, a green flash of an emerald iris. The glance passed all too quickly for Clint. But not too fast for Hawkeye. And she knew it. "Would you might writing that down? My Russian is not good. An address would also be nice." His voice now contained an edge, and the woman's shoulders were rigidly set.

"Of course," she agreed. "Please hold these." She passed the carton of red strawberries to the agent and opened a small handbag, retrieving a pen and small piece of paper, upon which she hastily scrawled the name of the restaurant and its address.

"Thank you," they told each other in unison, exchanging items uneasily.

"Tomorrow, then," Agent Barton stated cautiously.

"Yes… Tomorrow," she echoed, shuffling her feet. Several moments of awkward silence persisted, and then Agent Barton reached for her hand and took it, pulling her long, pale fingers to his lips. He pressed a soft kiss on the second knuckle of her middle finger, but never did the woman look up.

They both turned on their heels and parted. Agent Barton looked down at the note the girl had given to him and jumped, startled. A black spider christened with a small crimson hourglass was creeping across the parchment toward his wrist; Agent Barton had no qualms with the arachnid family, but had no interest in a venomous one crawling over his shooting hand. He shook his hand violently, throwing the small creature away. He quickly shoved the small note into his pocket and turned his head over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes at the retreating form of the female he'd just asked out to lunch. His vision zeroed in on her retreating form, and the world seemed to slow down, narrowing in on just this one target. He watched her turn as if in slow motion, casting her emerald gaze over her shoulder toward him. And in that moment he was certain. She was Natasha Romanova, the one he'd been sent to this godforsaken country to acquire. Damn she was beautiful, even more so in person than in photo. He turned his body completely and, eyes never leaving his target, he pushed through the oncoming crowd, gaining speed; this was going to be easier than he thought.

All at once, the woman ripped her outer garments off to reveal a skin-tight black suit adorned with an uncountable number of weapons, ranging from a pocketknife-sized blade to a shotgun strapped across her back. People squealed and parted as Romanova drew a pistol from its halter on her belt and aimed it toward Agent Barton's head. He ducked before the explosion rocked the air around them, avoiding her well-placed attempt by several feet. Hastily, he ripped his own revolver from a concealed pocket on his vest and, diving behind a rickety wooden cart, aimed it toward Romanova's legs, unloading several rounds in the direction of her feet. The Black Widow flipped out of the way, springing onto the cart where Agent Barton hid, and he found himself face-to-face with the barrel of her small weapon. Adrenaline pumping through his veins, he threw all of his weight into the cart and it tipped, throwing Romanova into the street under a gooey, sweet-smelling mound of peaches. She exploded from the mess and broke into a run, winding through the mass of indifferent Russian without so much as a backward glance. Agent Barton grinned, reaching into a cargo pocket on his baggy black pants, hands clasping around his beloved weapon of choice – his bow. He drew it, activating it with its passcode. The limbs snapped out, and with great speed and finesse he wound the leather cord tightly into its track. It twanged healthily when he released it, and a feeling of giddy excitement spread over his arms. He shed his outer coat, revealing powerful, taunt biceps and ripped, muscular shoulders and a full quiver of arrows. He was Hawkeye again, clad in a deep purple uniform, and as his fantastic vision located Romanova, several meters away by now, he slipped on his characteristic polarized glasses and pursued.

* * *

**AN: Hey everybody, thanks for waiting for me! This was entirely too long between updates, and I apologize. I've been very busy recently, but hopefully I'll post with more reliability, now that things are slowing down. But you know what would help me update even faster? If you clicked on that little review button down there. It's begging to be clicked! Love, HckeyGirl871**


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Sorry I am a slow updater! Enjoy! And review, review, review! I say... You'll get a new chapter when reviews hit the 17 mark! PLEASE offer your feedback, don't be lazy! ;) Love you all, **

**~Hockey **

* * *

**Chapter 4 **

**St. Petersburg, Russia **

**January 20****th****, 1999. 11:49am**

The Black Widow had not meant to blow her cover so easily, and she cursed herself as she twisted and dove through the crowded Russian streets, dashing between businessmen in suits and babushkas clothed in tattered, reeking drapes. Her training had prepared her far better than the little act she had put on for the American, and she'd taken his aptitude at false value; he had been on to her from the moment she'd spoken, and the glimpse of her face had given her away entirely. She'd been warned that he had sharp eyes; apparently she hadn't realized just how perceptive he really was. And now she was running, a humiliating position for an elite assassin like herself, especially at the hands of the _American_ spy. She assumed that her little pet had not been able to do its work, else he would have collapsed a long while ago. She barely cast a glance over her shoulder as she fled; it was best to not lose time checking on his progress. If he caught her, she would fight, but until then there was no use checking.

She led him on a wild, unpredictable route through the enormous cities, crossing several bridges, tearing across cobblestone streets where he temporarily lost her behind a passing train of double decker buses, and sprinting through a very green public park. Once, the Widow believed that she had lost her assailant. However, her relief was short lived, for a clatter betrayed his position, and she spotted him dashing across the rooftops in pursuit, eyes locked on her bobbing red curls. She started as she recognized the weapon in his hand; it was a bow of some sort, as black as night and lithe as a cat. She had never trained with a weapon of that nature, and considered in vastly outdated. But she didn't take it with a grain of salt as she had taken the fact he had come from the United States that he carried the bizarre armament, and simply moved faster. She skidded around a muddy corner, feet flying in a black blur, and dove into a narrow, shadowed alley. The Black Widow sprinted between the buildings as quickly as she could over the icy bricks, slipping against the frozen ground. She felt and heard the Hawk land on the street behind her. He grunted as his boots struggled with the slush, and the Widow quickly outpaced him. But once again, her relief was short lived, for as she neared the back of the alleyway, she was confronted with a towering wrought iron fence and, unable to halt on the slippery ground, she cascaded straight into it. Her thin hands fought for purchase on the chilly metal bars and she managed to remain upright. She was trapped; a dead end. The Widow could hear the American's footsteps pattering closer and eventually slowing, and she turned to face him with a defiant, fierce gleam crossing her eyes.

The man – if he was old enough to be given that title – was pacing toward her, breathing heavily and puffing misty gray clouds into the air as he walked. She had never known someone to dress so ostentatiously. The master assassin was clad in a vibrant purple uniform that clung tightly around his large, thick thighs and left his rippling, taunt arm muscles bare. The deep violet vest covering his chest was also stretched tight and was spotted with canvas pockets of a near fuchsia hue. One hand was covered partially by a worn leather glove that extended across the length of his forearm, a guard to protect from the zinging leather cord of his most favored weapon. The Black Widow looked up into his face last. It was partially obscured by what appeared to be a leather helmet, the same purple as the rest of his outfit. Wisps of sandy brown hair fell from beneath it, gracing the purple rims of a narrow pair of polarized sunglasses. She thought he looked perfectly ridiculous. What self-respecting man would adorn himself in purple clothing?

"Do we need to do this the hard way?" the Hawk questioned, striding closer. "Or would you be kind enough to come with me?"

"Why, getting tired already, American?" the Widow challenged, pulling herself up a little, clenching her fists tightly. Her adversary tilted his head with a sly smile.

"Hardly. Just wouldn't want to damage that pretty little face of yours."

The Widow struggled to control the rage boiling within her stomach.

"I'll be the _last_ pretty thing you ever see if you don't back off, American!" she seethed, moving away from the iron gate so as to circle around the enemy. In respect to her aggressive stance, the Hawk also began to pace in a circular path, edging nervously across the chilly ground. He laughed snidely.

"I highly doubt that," the Hawk commented, pulling an arrow from his quiver (also a ghastly purple color) and fitting it idly into the catch. "Now, Miss Romanova," his tone changed dramatically as he raised his now loaded weapon, his coy smile falling away. "If you'll come with me…"

The Widow dove, dodging first to the left and then rolling to the right, an arrow whizzing through her whirling red curls. Digging her hands into the ground, she catapulted forward, her foot colliding with the upper limb of the bow and by default the Hawk's chest. She dropped to the ground, landing lightly on her back as the other assassin tumbled backward into a stinking, rat-ridden pile of garbage bags. She leaped onto the frigid, ice-coated bars of the iron gate and scrambled up the lattice with as much dexterity as the spider for which she was named. She flipped over the prongs outlined against the gray Russian sky smoothly and landed gently on the cobblestones on the other side. She twisted her head over her shoulder to see the Hawk in rapid pursuit, though his conquering of the gate was decidedly less graceful; he was tumbling over a large steel dumpster, slipping and sliding on the glassy ice. The Black Widow took off in a sprint once more, ducking into a nearby unfinished brick building, little feet barely striking the ground. Comparatively, Hawkeye's movements were as loud as thunderclaps as he followed her. But the spider was tiring. She was a fighter, not runner.

He caught her after they had mounted several flights of stairs when, in a desperate attempt to quit the horrendous climbing, she dove into a partially-completed room filled with old furniture, plaster residue, and long sheets of plastic wrap. As she turned into the apartment the Hawk lunged for her legs, seized her ankles and ripping them from beneath her, sending the spideress tumbling to the ground. He was prepared for the resulting kick to the face that followed, and released her calves without struggle. She clambered away from him and into the room. Hawkeye followed, mood not at all dampened by the red dripping from his nose and the metallic taste in his mouth.

The chamber was not large, but it did prove to be a substantial sparring ring for the predators. As the Hawk crossed the threshold, the Widow's small hand flew toward his head, but instead of connecting with his temple, he seized her fingers in a vice like grip and twisted, a satisfied sense of dominance flushing over him as she cried in shock when several bones cracked apart. He jerked her closer, intending to place her in a simple headlock, ending the struggle right then and there, but Romanova had other plans. She was not that easy. She scrambled up and over Hawkeye's back, wrapping surprisingly muscular legs around his midsection and grabbing at his face with her free hand. The Hawk groaned and backpedaled, slamming the woman against the crumbling wall behind them, yet this did not faze her. She clung on tightly, fingernails digging into the soft skin of his cheek. Again he slammed her against the wall, but then, giving up on this endeavor, somersaulted forward, throwing all of his weight onto her as he hit the ground. She squealed in pain, and released him as he continued to tumble away. Head ringing and face soaked in blood, the Hawk rolled into a crouch and fit an arrow quickly, and was suddenly aware of the horrible gray brightness of the scene. A hand flew to his face, and he found his glasses and his helmet to be missing. Horror overcame him and he looked to Romanova. She was kneeling several feet away clutching the lost elements of his uniform, and for the first time since they had met, she was not moving. Red curls tangled, a drop of blood oozing from a gash in her forehead, the master assassin had frozen, emerald eyes fixated on Hawkeye's face. He paused, uncertainty ringing in his expression. She almost seemed innocent. If only she hadn't been his target. He loosed the arrow in her direction but she dodged, dropping his glasses and helmet in the process. He ducked as she pulled a derringer from her pocket and fired over his head. For several minutes they bantered back and forth, parrying blows, avoiding well-placed bullets (and in some cases, arrows), and diving around the abandoned room with as much gusto as black cats on Hallows Eve.

Hawkeye seized Romanova by the throat, catching her in mid-dive, and a strangled gag choked out of her mouth. The Hawk clenched his talons tighter and tighter, until the Widow's lips began to turn an unpleasant shade of purple. Her eyes grew wide and pleading as he drew her closer, so that their faces were merely inches away from each other. The woman twisted in his grasp, desperately struggling for air, feebly clawing at his jacket with her slim, suffocated hands.

"You're under arrest for violating international law, Romanova. I'm taking you back to the United States of America, where you'll be dealt with justly and –"

Agent Barton never finished his sentence. A violent pain erupted in his chest and a soundless scream ripped from his mouth. He lost his vision and an accurate sense of anything but the hurt, including the Black Widow, and, arms flailing wildly, he fell to the ground, limbs twitching and eyes rolling. It felt as if someone had exchanged his blood for sulfuric acid. Acid that ate away at you from inside out.

**"State your name."**

**"Clinton Barton."**

**"Your age?"**

**"Seventeen."**

**The man across the room turned away from the window, looking at the boy called Clinton Barton with something akin to skepticism.**

**"Seventeen, huh? Criminals start that young, do they?"**

**"Only the good ones, sir," Clinton Barton responded edgily, shifting nervously on the unfeeling metal stool upon which he sat. **

**"A good criminal," supposed the man. "That's slightly oxymoronic, don't you think, Clinton Barton?" Clinton Barton didn't respond. The man's cold, dark gaze seemed to pierce straight through Clinton Barton's head.**

**"With all due respect, I'm very good at what I do," Clinton Barton said finally. The dark man by the window smirked.**

**"Very good would be an understatement."**

**"Thank you?" Clinton Barton asked uncertainly. The man smirked again.**

**"That ****_was_**** a compliment."**

**"So what **exactly do we have here?"

Hawkeye suddenly snapped back into the present, gasping and drenched in sweat. He could see again, lying upon a cold floor somewhere in St. Petersburg, but all other muscular functions were lost to him. What had happened? What was that scene that had consumed his mind for thirty seconds, or however long it had been? But more importantly, what had hit him? He'd been in control, hadn't he? She was about to lose consciousness; what had knocking him out. He suddenly became aware of a dead weight on his chest and he struggled against it; however, his efforts did no good, for he was unable to move even his pinky finger.

"Breathe," said a cool female voice. "The paralysis is only temporary." Hawkeye's eyes widened in shock; the weight was his target, and she had seated herself squarely on his broad torso, one leg on either side of his body. She reached out with two finger and brushed his sandy brown hair across his forehead, a movement that would have been incredibly flirtatious had he not been pinned and unable to make any move whatsoever. He attempted to give her the fiercest glare he could muster using only his eyes. She began to probe his pockets. "Agent Clint 'Hawkeye" Barton. Sharp-shooter. Fascinating." She'd found his ID cards. So much for his pretense.

In the end she left him slumped in a moth-eaten velvet-covered armchair, and he stayed there, immobilized until nightfall. Agent Barton stumbled back to his hotel room at a quarter till 1:00am, muscles sore and headache pounding. He didn't even bother with a shower or removing his uniform; the Agent collapsed onto the cool, fresh sheets and immediately fell into a deep, conflicted slumber.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

**Korovabar Bar and Restaurant**

**January 21st, 1999. 1:03pm**

Barton arose the next morning bitter and sore. The frigid Russian air had stiffened his muscles and numbed his limbs as he slept, and the young agent was none too happy about it. He managed to drag himself to the shower, leaning like an old woman against the walls in order to hobble his way there, and turned the temperature to high. He could almost feel the built up tension and expired lactic acid draining away as the steaming water scalded his back and shoulders; he took a piss in the shower, straight down the drain, ignoring the offensive odor that came with it. Too soon the heat began to dissipate, forcing Barton to depart his beloved steam-bath. He wrapped himself in a coarse white towel he found stuffed into the cabinet beneath the sink and then flopped down upon his bed, once more closing his eyes.

He could scarcely remember yesterday. He could recall the marketplace with all of its colors and people. He could recall meeting the pretty redhead girl who spoke English without even the trace of an accident, and how she had morphed quite suddenly from a petite, tasteful sprite of a woman into a brawny killing machine in a matter of several seconds. And then, painfully, the agent recalled how she had wholly kicked his ass on the floor of that abandoned warehouse. Why had she left him alive? Barton wondered to himself. If he had been in her place, he would have most certainly done away with him without a second thought. Was it because she didn't think him a threat? Or maybe she needed something from him? Or maybe it was that she didn't what to cause a fiasco between the Russian government and the American one. _Snap out of it, Barton_, said a voice in his head. _You're thinking too much._

He rose to his feet and set about getting dressed, deciding not to dwell upon his defeat yesterday anymore. It was time to get going. _Round two, let's go again, Miss Black-fucking-Widow, whatever that is,_ he thought, pulling a shirt over his taunt chest. _We'll see who gets the better of who today. You'll see. _Strapping on his leather trench coat Barton caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror. The face that looked back at him was strong and healthy; full cheeks, skin full of color, short haircut trim as usual. He rubbed his chin, admiring its angular, cut design. It was no wonder, he thought conceitedly, that women came readily to his waiting hands. The Widow would be no different. However, there was an uncomfortable catch, a rigid, unfulfilled glint in the mirror that Barton couldn't identify. The steely eyes looked somewhat dull and bored. Lifeless. He frowned discontentedly. There was something missing from his otherwise assertive, chiseled face. But he turned away from the wall and soon the jaded man in the mirror was out of sight, and therefor out of mind. Agent Barton attached his bow to his belt and left the hotel by slipping through the window.

"What?" The cry was a strangled, rasping shout, full of indignant fury. Drakov rocked himself forward, baring blackened, scarred teeth. "What do you mean, Black Widow! That a son of… of…" - Drakov gargled in his throat as if the word were too treacherous to say aloud – "is there? In St. Petersburg? Tracking you!?" It was all the hooded figure could do to not rise and overturn the bed he lay on.

"Not tracking," replied Natalia Romanova coolly, suavely. "Searching. However, I easily dispatched him yesterday afternoon." Drakov made a noise, something between a snarl and a hiss that Romanova decided to ignore. More of these rasping chortles crackled across the connection, and the Black Widow sighed, bored. "What more do you need to know?"

Drakov took a long moment to settle his trembling temper.

"How goes your search for the lobelia?" he barked, changing the subject.

"Delayed, by our American friend." Drakov released an outraged bellow. "But only by one day, my liege. Soon you will have your flower." A purr echoed from Drakov's throat.

"Good," said he, turning his eyes to an enormous spider painted upon one of his walls. "Good. You are my favorite daughter, Natalia, you know this, yes?"

"I do." There was no trace of having been moved by Drakov's comment. "Now, if you don't mind, _batya_, I have to go. Things to do. Flowers to find."

"Yes," Drakov purred, coal-black eyes glinting beneath his hood. "Indeed you do. And recall, my sweet Natalia, it is the seed you are seeking; not the petals."

In fact, Natalia Romanova was not immediately setting out to obtain the lobelia seeds. Out of sight and out of mind of the Father, whom was far away in Moscow, she placed the phone back on its hook and finished lacing up lemming fur-lined boots. She placed a black beret upon the mound of crimson curls cascading over her shoulders and exited the small apartment at a brisk walk, heading toward one of her favorite places in St. Petersburg: Korovabar. She could not say why she enjoyed the little tavern so much, or what allure it held for her, but whenever she was within a twenty-mile radius of the place she frequented it. It was there she was heading now, on a whim perhaps dictated by fate. She tipped her pale, narrow face to the Russian wind and breathed deeply the smell of Russian air.

She could not precisely say why she had lied to the _batya_, the father, about the American spy being disposed of, but she enjoyed the way he ate her falsehood without question. So flawlessly did Drakov believe in her ability and her loyalty that he would not even exert his bizarre hypnotic influence over her mind to test her as he did with the others. They could scarcely wash their hair without Drakov monitoring from a distance the shampoo that they used. It felt somewhat liberating – and dangerous - to hold a small degree of freedom and a large degree of rank above the other Widows. And eventually the deeds she proclaimed would be done; they simply weren't done yet.

"Tasha!" cried the barkeep as Romanova entered. Of course, she did not tell him her real name. Her Widow name. That was against The Code. "A pleasure to see you again, dearie!"

"To you as well, Boris," she replied, smiling pleasantly.

"The usual, I assume, sweetheart?" asked Boris, smiling a grin with several holes. At Romanova's nod he began to prepare a glass of a firey, pungent drink called _Alize Bleu_, a mixture of several Vodka types and a special substance called Nuvo. As his expert hands poured and stirred he leaned over the countertop, mustache waggling. "There's someone here's been askin' for you, Tasha!" he said cheekily, eyes sparkling. "An' he's a looker, too!" Boris gestured with his head to the left.

She followed his gaze, smile quickly turning to a straight frown. She turned back to Boris.

"Send him away from here, Boris," she muttered coldly. "I do not wish to see him."

"Tasha!" said the bartender. "I can't jus' throw 'im out! 'E's a payin costumur, after all! You know that as well as me." Romanova's eyes flashed but she did not protest further. Instead she accepted her _Alize _with muttered gratitude and proceeded to a small table near to the windows.

"I didn't think you'd have the balls to show up today," said she icily. "After I so cleanly relieved you of them yesterday." The American agent rotated in his chair to face her.

"I don't really think that's what happened," he stated argumentatively. "You kicked my ass, but you fight like a little girl." A smile flickered onto his pale lips. Romanova's expression remained stoic. She said nothing. "Sit down?" Barton suggested, but his statement rose in pitch at the last, and he stood up tentatively. Romanova debated with herself for several seconds, but, deciding that his eyes at least for now seemed earnest, moved to take his vacated seat. She waited until he had distanced himself from her across the little booth before sitting, still wary of his intentions. He sat across from her and promptly placed his elbows on the table. Romanova pursed her lips, eying him chillily. _Americans_, she thought cynically.

"Ya' know, I didn't really think you were going to show up, either," he hazarded a start to conversation as Romanova tipped her glass to her lips, her cold eyes never leaving Barton's face. She took a long moment to savor the Russian whiskey, swirling the amber liquid around her mouth, relishing the way it burned her tongue and teeth, and then swallowed, shivering pleasurably as the Vodka rushed down her throat. She loved alcohol in all forms; drinking was strictly forbidden by the Widow Code, but she did it anyway. There were a great many things that were against Code that she did anyway. "I thought you'd just vanish. Disappear." Barton waved his hands as if to indicate she was a fly he'd carelessly swatted away. "And then I'd actually have to work a little bit to deserve my paycheck." Again, that coy smile. It infuriated Romanova, but she was damned if she let it show.

"Let me give you some advice," interrupted she. "You can either give up, or you will die." The Widow looked up, piercing Barton with a vice-like gaze. She was not exceptionally beautiful; the face was too narrow and mouth too small, and the red hair was decidedly unkempt. But the eyes were a fantastic shade of gray, and Barton found himself unable to look away.

"I don't think so," Barton replied, eyebrows coming together in a firm glare. "You'll find, Miss, that I'm rather hard to kill." Romanova's face remained unwaveringly indifferent.

"Agent Barton, I've fought _many_ of your kind before, but none of them have presented me with the slightest hint of a challenge." He suddenly found himself hating the sound of her voice, the mountains of filthy red curls, the hollow cheeks, and the gray eyes. He imagined putting an arrow straight through that steel iris, straight through that coal black hated her; the sooner this assignment concluded the better. She was speaking still – "And from what I've seen so far, you won't either. I suggest you return to the United States – where you belong – and deal with your country's own affairs. _Batya_ knows, there are plenty." Now she did smile, a sick, detached smile that only made Barton angrier. Beneath the tabletop he fingered his bow longingly. She watched him, not missing a thing. "What do you think?" she questioned, blinking.

"I think you're full of shit," Barton stated, glaring. "I'm not going anywhere."

The Widow's smile deepened.

"Very well, _Hawkeye_," she said apathetically, mockery twisting her words unfeelingly as she stood. Dizziness wrapped itself around her head suddenly and she frowned. "We shall have an interesting time of it, then."

"What are you hunting for? Why are you here?" Barton demanded loudly, leaping to his feet. "What are you playing at?"

Romanova felt her stomach lurch and she felt abruptly very tired. She blinked repeatedly.

"I'm not…s'posed to say…" the young girl fell forward suddenly, collapsing into Barton's waiting arms, out cold. Hawkeye nodded to Boris, who looked back at him with ignorant disdain (but who kept a firm hand clenched around the money in his pocket) and, wrapping an arm around the unconscious woman's waist, left Korovabar for his hotel.


	6. Chapter 6

**"How old is she?" **

**" 'leven, but she don't look it, do she?" **

**A man sniffed derisively.**

**"Well, no…"**

**"Well what's yer problem with her, then?" **

**"Regardless of her outward physique, she's still a little young for this sort of thing. We usually wait until they've grown up a little bit. We do not want trouble with the law."**

**"If the coppers give you shit for it tell em' she's sixteen. She can pass fer it."**

**There was a moment's pause. The room felt hot with the tension of conclusion, the dank musty air of a room where dreams were crushed and broken. **

**"Very well. I have considered your claim and have chosen to accept it. Bring the child forth; let her meet her new master."**

**"Thank ye, thank ye! N'tasha! Git over here, you little wench!"**

**The girl came obediently, clutching a leather-bound book to her chest, peeking shyly from beneath short red curls. She wore a black beanie on her head and a bright crimson coat fastened with faux ivory buttons. **

**"Where am I, Da? What's going on?" A man who smelled strongly of tobacco and alcohol seized her wrist and drug her forward.**

**"This is yer new master, girl. Remember all the manners I taught ye'; yer gonna need 'em!" **

**"Natasha," began a new voice, one refined and very noble. "I am Alexei Bezukhov. I work for the Great and Honorable Romanov Dynasty. Now, you do as well. Take a few moments to say goodbye to your father; then, follow me."**

**"Da?" squeaked the little redhead. "What does the man mean? What is happening to me?"**

**"You best do as yer told. Ungrateful ****_bijad_****, whore! Get you gone! Out of my sight!"**

**"Come with me, Natasha. Soon, your father will mean nothing to you," said Alexei.**

**"No!" cried the girl. "Don't let them take me! Da! Where are you going? I'm afraid! Da, please! Come back! Daddy!" But the man did not come back. The man turned on his heels and stalked icily from the room, and the little girl –**

The Black Widow shook violently to consciousness with a gasp, kicking with her arms and legs. She heard a man gasp in pain followed by the sound of a body colliding with wood, and as her vision returned, she saw it was that pesky American spy. She smiled snidely and made to stand up. But she found that she couldn't, for her wrists were bound firmly around a wooden post. The grin vanished from her face and she strained violently, twisting and writhing against her bonds, as a vixen will when ensnared in a trap. Hawkeye had been thorough in securing her as his prisoner; the shackles bit into her wrists and across the room were her electrically charged Widow-Bite weaponry, far out of reach. For the first time, the Widow felt fear. Without her electrical artillery, she was decidedly disadvantaged in close-quarter combat. Romanova turned wide green eyes in the direction of Agent Clint Barton, drawing her knees close to her chest defensively. He was leaning against the wall rubbing his diaphragm grimly. From the way his breath hitched, the Widow believed a rib to be broken. He pushed away from the wall.

"Get close to me again and I'll break all of them!" she bellowed, curling her toes. Agent Barton glowered from beneath dark, defined eyebrows.

"Fine," he muttered. "Have it your way. I can chat with you just as easily from over here!" The young man rested against the chestnut desk opposite of the Widow, crossing his rippling, bulging arms. She looked on skeptically, unimpressed. The two assassins made eye contact, sizing each other up with fiery glares. Barton was dressed in baggy black cargo pants with an innumerable amount of pockets. These were filled with a wide assortment of weaponry and tools, from the chic curve of a knife blade to a pocket screwdriver. Covering his torso was a plain gray T-shirt bearing the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo. Romanova, much to her dismay, found that she was now only clad in a tight black slip; Barton had been wise enough to remove her red jumper, which contained several handguns and a replacement battery pack for her Widow-Bite cuffs. Without her effects she felt vulnerable, but not helpless.

"You sure know how to treat a lady," Romanova grumbled, squirming into a more comfortable position.

"I can show a woman a good time if I want," he said.

"Doubt it," sniffed Romanova. "It seems like your idea of a good time would be rough-fucking in a bed that doesn't belong to you."

Barton chuckled.

"How did you know?" Romanova was not amused.

"How did you get me here?" she questioned tightly, fidgeting wit her arms and legs, trying to maneuver into a more comfortable position.

"Seduction." A disapproving gray glare made him flinch. Apparently the little bitch didn't understand sarcasm. Barton sighed. "A sedative. I paid Boris to slip it into your drink." If Romanova was injured by the news of her betrayal she didn't show it. She merely cursed herself in Russian and shook her red curls unhappily.

"I've arranged for provisions for our departure. You and I will be leaving this hotel tomorrow for the airport where a private airliner will be waiting to carry us to America."

"Provisions. That's a big word for you," chided the Black Widow, crossing her legs and leaning against the bedpost. If Barton minded the jibe he didn't show it; he'd pulled a gleaming dagger from his pocket and was fixatedly polishing a small blemish upon the blade. Romanova watched with interest. He finished what he was doing and placed the weapon upon the desk.

"I suggest you get some shut eye," he said. "We're leaving early. Don't worry-" Barton interjected, holding up his broad hands. "- I have no intention to rape you or even touch you. So you don't have to worry about that."

Romanova threw him a withering look but didn't respond. Barton settled himself in a chair across the room from her and methodically, rhythmically began to fetch what appeared to be an arrow best suited for a bow. She cocked her head quizzically. Grudgingly she had to admit she was the tiniest bit fascinated by the agent's odd weapon choice. A question flitted about on the edge of her tongue, begging to be voiced, but she bit it back regretfully. Barton was right; she was in dire need of rest. And if she wanted to escape tomorrow she would need all of the energy she could muster, especially if she had no access to weapons. Yawning, the girl contrived a way to feel almost comfortable whilst being chained to a bedpost and closed her eyes. She believed Barton when he claimed he had no interest in touching her, so she did not worry about him. However, as she drifted off into sleep, one word rang in her head: it was _HELP!_

* * *

The Black Widow awoke to the harsh sound of a male voice.

"Hey. You. Up. Now." She could not at first remember where she was and she struggled, ripping her freed left arm from the firm grasp of an unseen adversary (the room was blindingly bright to her newly opened eyes) and dug long fingernails into the forearm of the person who had seized her right. He let out an angushed cry and stumbled back and away, damning her to the seventh ring of hell. The Black Widow staggered as she stood, blinking furiously in an effort to regain her vision. The two men who had been endeavoring to restrain her were in a jumbled heap on the floor, struggling to right themselves. The Black Widow smiled cruelly as she wrenched a lamp from the wall, fully intending to wield it as a weapon against these lesser men.

All at once sharp pain erupted in the back of her knee and she gasped, strong arms suddenly encircling her waist and torso, pinning her hands to her sides. Losing her balance, the owner of those impenetrable, hard arms squeazed so tightly that she thought she might suffocate. Romaonva flared with her legs but only succeeded in giving the already-downed agent another black eye to admire in the mirror. The blows raining off Barton's shins had little to no effect on him.

"Stanley, Burke, why can't I ever count of you to do anything damn right?" Hawkeye shouted icily. "I gave you an easy job, and you ended up getting tossed around like a ragdoll!"

"I'm sorry, Agent Hawkeye!" protested the one called Stanley. "She's got a helluva kick…"

"I know. How do you think I broke my rib?" Stanley had nothing to say in response. "Go bring the car around. We'll meet you down there. You go, too, Burke. Let's see: how many simpletons does it take to drive a car? Ha, Haha!" As Barton's assistants wandered out of the room rubbing their heads and wondering what had just happened, Barton sat back onto the hotel room's bed, pulling Romanova onto his lap. She squirmed in protest, now absolutely unhappy with the turn of events. She did not particularly enjoy human company, and especially when they were someone who would very dearly enjoy slitting her throat, and even more so when that person was touching her.

"Don't get excited," said he. "I'm only doing this because I'm too lazy to stand up." Romanova frowned deeply and slumped against his chest in defeat – though he did not trust this was actually giving up the struggle and maintained a very tight stranglehold around his prey. "You know I had to stay up all night watching you? It would have been boring if not for the sleep-talking." Now Romanova really did stop struggling.

"Sleep-talking?" she asked in shock. This she had never heard before. "How do you mean..?"

"You talk in your sleep," Barton chuckled. Romanova was close enough that his laughs shook her body. "And you say some pretty interesting things."

"Like what?" The question popped out before she could stop it. _Dammit, Nat! Stop letting yourself get interested!_

"You were talking about how fucking sexy you think I am," replied Barton sarcastically, and again he laughed. There was something wrong with his laugh, something abstract Romanova couldn't quite detect; something absent from it that made the sound seem fake and impossible. But she quickly put it from her mind and elbowed the young male agent to the best of her ability. "Ow! You're brutal," cried Agent Barton sarcastically, shifted so as to prevent the violent retaliation from happening again.

"I try," said Romanova, pursing her lips. At that moment, Stanley appeared in the doorframe.

"Agent Hawkeye, sir, the car is ready."

"Took you long enough! Up you get, miss." Barton rocked forward on his feet, pushing Romanova with him. To her dismay, she found that he had once again shackled her wrists together. With the agent in front of her and Hawkeye behind, she followed mildly to the waiting black car outside.

* * *

Reaching the airport the car moved immediately through security with a special pass presented by Burke. He drove it across the runway to a large black airliner. Searing exhausted wafted through the air from the immense engines, disfiguring the skyline if St. Petersburg in the distance. Romanova and Barton were just exiting the vehicle when the Hawk tensed.

"Something's not right…" he said. And then the bomb went off.


End file.
